Shivering, he let out a slow, shuddering breath, and cursed his condition. Why did he have to be the bloody scout? It wasn't fair… it really wasn't. And to make matters worse – yes, they got worse – he was lost… everything looked the same! Snow, and white everywhere, and not a landmark in sight.

            "Bugger it all!" he cursed, gazing this way and that, hugging his arms about his chest. He foolishly kicked his bare foot out, and squeaked when it dislodged not only snow, but ice. He had stubbed his toe, and hopped about for a moment, and cursed all the foul words under the sun that he could think of, wincing and growling. "I hate my job sometimes…"

            Demon hunting in the Northern States of America… the world – not to mention the League – had gone utterly mad.

            "Brrr…" Skinner shivered madly again, and rubbed his arms with his hands furiously, his teeth chattering as his breath coiled away from him in an icy cloud, and he pulled in a deep mouthful of frozen air. "I never realised it was this cold in Alaska…"

            He was tempted to just sit himself down on a rock, and forget about it all. But then again, if he stopped moving, he would get even more lost… if that made any sense… no it didn't. How could one isolated part of America be so blasted cold in comparison to the rest?

            "This stupid place isn't even a proper state," he grumbled in a foul temper, and gave up, sitting himself on a rock, muttering irritably and miserably to himself under his breath about all his foul luck. Sighing heavily, and closing his eyes – for what little good it did him, what with invisible eyelids to boot – he looked around once more. What kind of blasted demons were they looking for out here anyway? A yeti?! They weren't exactly going to find anything else, were they? Not with all this snow.

            He lost track of how long he'd sat there, but all he did know was that by the time he heard the disturbance of snow approaching, along with barking, he was covered on the top of the head and shoulders by about an inch of chilling, numbing snow. His teeth chattered uncontrollably, and he was shaking non-stop. Curse his invisibility, curse it! If he were tangible like everyone else, he wouldn't have to be naked.

            That was definitely barking… howling and yipping even, and as he squinted through the light sheets of softly falling snowflakes, he saw the vague shape appear, and the quiet call of his name.

            "Aha!" he yelped, and jumped quickly and immediately to his feet, yelling, "Over here! Oi, over here!"

            Within a few moments, as he continued to yell and wave about, disturbing the downfall of flakes around him, a line of four or five malamutes had pulled up next to him, and someone tugged back a thick white hood, revealing their head of blonde hair, and curious, even concerned expression. "What the hell are you doing out here?"

            "I've been on vacation," he replied dryly and sarcastically, voice trembling with the chill. "What do you think, Sawyer? I've been bloody demon huntin' for you lot, all snuggled up in your jackets and gloves."

            Tom Sawyer cocked his head with a sympathetic grin, and yanked a thick blanket out of the front of the sled he was standing on. "Dammit, Skinner, you're about a mile too far to the north of where we left you! We were worried sick!"

            Skinner let the blanket hit him in the head, too frozen to move quickly to catch it, and frowned, not in the mood. He reached down slowly, and heaved the thick, warming blanket around his bare frame, shuddering out, "This… is not my day."

            With that, he heaved himself onto the front of the sled, and continued to grumble on the journey back to camp.